Midnight Man (Midnight #1)(21)
Sorensen was at least fifty pounds overweight—all of it pure flab—and he still couldn’t be bothered to walk a few miles. To top it all off, Mr. CEO talked the whole time about how his shrink had told him to ‘get back in touch with his manhood’.
John wanted to tell the guy that getting back in touch with his manhood was going to take a lot more than tumbling his secretary once a month.
This wasn’t his scene. He’d written off the contract until the Venezuela episode showed Sorensen and the entire Western Oil Board that actions were more powerful than words, any time.
John was good at action. Bad at words.
It had never bothered him before. Action had got him everything he’d ever wanted from life. Until now. Action wasn’t going to get him back into Suzanne Barron’s bed. Maybe not words, either.
But whatever it was that was going to work, he’d find it.
He’d never failed a mission yet.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Men!” Todd Armstrong said in disgust, leaning back and crossing his perfectly creased linen trousers. They were in Todd’s elegant office in a steel and glass high-rise which he’d manage to make look like a boudoir. Todd’s tastes were unerringly fine but classic. He could spot a Louis Quatorze at a hundred paces and he knew every auction house in the continental United States.
They made a great team. Suzanne had a natural affinity for modern design and Todd had a magic touch when it came to traditional design. Together, they buzzed. Todd kept her from being too starkly post-modern and she restrained his natural tendency to go for the Sun-King-in-Versailles-on-acid look.
“Bad date, sweetie?” Suzanne asked.
Todd’s lips pursed. “I’ll say. The date from hell. Listen to this one.”
Suzanne sat back, prepared to be amused. Todd’s forays into the wild world of dating were legendary.
“Here we are in that new Thai place—you know it?“
“The Golden Tiger?” If it was new and trendy, Todd had been there. Suzanne had just read the food review in The Oregonian and knew that it was just a matter of time before Todd would go to The Golden Tiger himself and report back to her.
“That’s the one. Tacky decor but the food is to die for. At least the meal wasn’t a total write-off. So anyway, here we are. Food’s good. My date’s cute. A young Keanu Reeves, Gucci suit, tight buns. I thought it was really going to work out. And then all through the chicken satay I listen to him telling me how much he hates his mother. I’m told in excruciating detail exactly how much. Though if half of what he told me is true, he’s got a point. Then he starts recounting in even more excruciating detail all about his hobby, which is?” Todd leaned back and watched her, head tilted.
She tried to think of all the things Todd might find boring. “His tax write-offs.”
“Noooo. That was Tuesday’s date, with the CPA.” Todd shuddered delicately. “This is worse.”
“Genetically modified organisms?”
Todd laughed. “No. That’s actually sort of interesting. Try harder.”
“Republican politics.”
He held his hand up and waggled it. ”Close,” he said, “but no cigar. Dutch voting patterns.”
“Wow.” Suzanne sat back and thought about a date spent discussing a castrating mother and Dutch politics. “Pretty dire.”
“The whole evening was about as much fun as rolling in glass.” Todd sighed theatrically. “I’m going to give up dating for Lent.”
Todd, giving up dating. Suzanne laughed at the thought. “Lent’s not for another three months. And anyway, you’re not Catholic. I don’t think you get any brownie points for giving things up for Lent unless you are. Still, not dating for a while might not be a bad idea. Why don’t you give yourself a little rest? Maybe—I don’t know—maybe a week’s respite?”
“Maybe,” he answered, doubtfully.
Suzanne hid a smile. She knew Todd, and knew his romantic nature. He was perennially on the lookout for the man of his life. He was absolutely convinced that his soul mate was waiting for him at the next nightclub, or restaurant or cocktail party. Todd could no more stop dating than he could stop eating or breathing.
“So,” she said, putting down her cup of tea after taking a sip. Delicious, perfect tea, a special blend Todd had imported especially from England. Served in the perfect teacup. Villeroy and Boch’s Vieux Luxembourg. Set out on the perfect silver tray. Christofle. Placed on the perfect coffee table, made out of a 16th century monastery door. Working with Todd was a pleasure in every possible way. “Are we ready to face the Dragon Lady this afternoon? Tell you what. You bring the chair and I’ll bring the whip.”
“Sorry, sweetie.” Todd sighed. “I think you might have to go into the Dragon Lady’s lair all by yourself. My accountant says that if I don’t stop by his office today, he’ll report me to the IRS himself. So Marissa Carson is all yours. You can be the one to convince her that, no, that much red in the bathroom will make it look too much like an internal organ and that those 80 yards of blue shantung she ordered on special consignment from Beijing cannot be dyed yellow.”
“And that you can’t tear down a load-bearing wall because it bothers your—what’s that dog breed? Lapsang souchong? The one that’s all hair and yaps constantly?”